The Flame Game

by R. J. Blain

  I doubted Sariel would even have to undergo extensive questioning, especially as the bastard would skip out of town to dodge conviction.

  Morrison lacked ethics like that.

  “So, we look into the rabies and the gorgon dust issue, figure out how they’re related, and figure out if the 120 Wall Street incident was also connected to that mess. I mean, it probably was. It was the same grade of gorgon dust, wasn’t it?”

  “It probably was from the same batch. Gorgon dust is not commonly manufactured, although we have no idea if they were making multiple batches. That’s possible, especially since we saw evidence of dust production in that gypsum mine.”

  “But that was a new batch, wasn’t it?”

  “Probably the replacement batch, and the hive was infected with rabies to get rid of them. That’s my suspicion.”

  “Do you think that male gorgon was that hive’s male?”

  Quinn shook his head. “No. A gorgon male would never treat his fallen like that.”

  I pondered what had happened in the gypsum mine up until I’d taken a rather unexpected trip to where the Egyptian pantheon dwelled away from the mortal coil. “That asshole recognized you.”

  “I have no idea who he was, but gorgons are aware I exist, as I’m the current prince of my line. My father is king in name only, although he’s definitely embraced some elements of gorgon society. When he gets tired of staring contests and dealing with pissed gorgons who can’t petrify him, he’ll pass the title to me.”

  “And since you’re a shapeshifter, you’ll be justified in having it?”

  “And should we have a son, he’ll probably pick up more of my traits than yours, so he’ll be the next prince of the line. Sons are rare for gorgons.”

  “You could control that, you know, Mr. Samuel Quinn.”

  “I could, but maybe I like the surprise.”

  “If I want a son, if you won’t self-manipulate to do your job appropriately, I will bring your uncle into it.”

  My husband’s chuckle was enough to curl my toes. “I’m not even going to battle with you over this one. Why don’t you surprise me when you decide we should have a boy? Otherwise, we’ll probably get girls constantly. My grandfather and his brother have over thirty older sisters, although it was unusual that they were in consecutive hatchings. There were no other boys from their parents. Then it was really unusual my grandfather had my father fairly early. I suspect my uncle or one of my grandfathers had something to do with my birth, truth be told.”

  “Because your father is consistently producing sisters for you to spoil?”

  “Spoil? You mean flee from at the earliest possibility. My sisters are vicious. The only reason I haven’t been ambushed is because I’ve been hiding in here with you. I’m hoping they go home before I have to face them.”

  “Do you love or hate your sisters?”

  “I love them, but I am severely outnumbered, and they lack mercy. When we were young, I appropriately defended them. Now? I run away so I don’t need to be rescued from them. Sometimes, I consider warning the gorgon males they will bring in true predators should my sisters decide to become brides. Gorgon males like to think they’re the kings of their harems, but the brides are really the rulers.”

  “I definitely noticed your grandfather is the definition of hitched and whipped, and that your grandmother is the primary culprit. His other wives are more reclusive. Have I even met them?”

  “No. You probably will at Easter. His hive is rather large, and his wives are closely bonded. They hate leaving anybody at home, so they either all go or they all stay. Add in the whelps, and getting everyone moved around is quite the challenge. But, we can help with that moving forward, as we can babysit sometimes to give them some space, although we’ll have to recruit some help from other hives.”

  “How many whelps does he have right now?”

  “Twenty or so, all girls.”

  My mouth dropped open. “Twenty?”

  “They’re all six, too.”

  “All of them are six?”

  “My grandmother is getting older, as is my grandfather, so that’s their last clutch. He won’t accept another bride at this point in his life, nor does he plan on cultivating any new wives. This clutch is from his youngest wives. That’s just how it goes. That’s why my father is the current king of our line. Grandfather wants to spend the rest of his days doting on his children, his wives, and his bride. My father handles the diplomacy, and my grandfather shows up to help remind the other gorgons of my father’s authority. My father has it easy. The hives don’t tend to push because my grandfather may be retired, but he’s still spry, and I have a far shorter temper than my grandfather does.”

  “Big, scary gorgon-incubus doohickey.” I grinned at him. “We just need to find out who has been hurting the gorgons, brutally kill them, and go about our business. Babysitting for him sounds like fun!”

  “I should be telling you that we shouldn’t brutally kill the guilty, but I’d be quite the hypocrite if I did that, as that’s precisely what I’d like to do if I get my hands on the fuckers.”

  My husband would. “I’ll try not to brutally kill them if you try not to brutally kill them. That whole day in court thing.”

  “We’d be saving the court system a lot of money,” he muttered.

  “I’ll just ask Sariel really nicely for a favor to close the case quickly. Really nicely. Extremely nicely. I’ll tell him it’s cheaper to help the court system than it is to pay for or handle my rabies treatments. Until this is solved, I’ll be working on my world record for most times a single woman can contract and be treated for rabies.”

  “That reminds me. That CDC rep wants you to not get treated for rabies the next time you rescue some animal from a dumpster, and if you’re positive, they want to see if you can purge the disease like angels do.”

  “But will I get to keep the animal?”

  “We can discuss that when it happens.” According to my husband’s resigned tone, he understood we’d have a new pet when the time came for that experiment.

  I had severe issues with dumpsters and wanting to keep the animals I found in them. “I have the feeling this is going to happen even without the help of a dumpster. What if you contract rabies?”

  “Standard treatments can work on me. I am concerned about the food supply for their snakes, though. Most eat feeder mice.”

  “So, we look into the mice situation, figure out why your family’s gorgons haven’t contracted rabies and other local hives have, and start there. Where does your grandfather get his mice?”

  Quinn blinked. “Huh.”

  I stared at him. “What?”

  “I bet he’s been catching them with extermination groups, as the whelps are young and need to learn to hunt mice if they’re unable to get to a supplier. That is an example of what gorgon young are taught. Beauty and Sylvester must have been fed feeder mice, where my grandfather’s hive would have been using live-caught mice and rats.” Quinn snagged his phone and dialed a number. “Sorry to bother you again, Grandfather, but have you been teaching the whelps how to hunt for mice? Excellent. Thank you. Have you been catching and freezing the excess? What is your general supply right now? How long have you been doing live hunts? Okay, thanks.” Shaking his head, my husband chuckled. “Yep. They’ve been live hunting mice, and he’s been taking his wives out for group hunts before that because it’s a fun family activity. They petrify the mice, take them home, neutralize them, dispatch them, and then freeze them. They’ve been doing this for years. Apparently, he made an agreement with several exterminator groups to help handle swarms of rats and mice. They do eat rats, too—they just cut them up before freezing into pieces small enough for their snakes.”

  “And so your family dodged being infected because they weren’t using a regular supplier.”

  “And I bet my cousin does the same thing. They just have to dish out for the neutralizer, and that’s cheap enough compared to buying vast quantities
of feeder mice. Better yet, the neutralizer would purify the wild rodents of most problems, including rabies. They just stack the statues, spray the whole lot of them, and then prepare them for eating later.”

  “Let’s open the rest of our presents, then we’ll make a to-do list, and get this show on the road!”

  I wanted to begin the rest of my life with my family while keeping them safe. Maybe some of my life’s problems couldn’t be solved with a liberal application of fire, neither rabies nor gorgon dust could survive through me.

  Six

  Are you sure about that?

  Many of the gifts involved clothing in some shape or another, including a mix of pretty lingerie, baby clothes in various sizes, and a disturbing number of fuzzy handcuffs for my enjoyment, which provided a rather strong hint everyone had rightfully assumed I’d fall prey to my husband. Constantly. Or I’d enjoy using handcuffs to catch him.

  Also rightfully assumed.

  “According to the number of baby outfits and general supplies here, we are not having twins. We’re having octuplets. Or even more. This is way too much for two babies, Sam.”

  “Except the diapers. There will never be enough diapers.” The diaper packs cracked us both up, and a small fortune in baby poop containment devices waited by the door to be sent home via various teleporting family members. “Storing those until the babies arrive will be amusing, but at least we won’t have to worry about getting most things for their first few weeks of life.”

  “And we won’t need to worry about getting a baby stroller, car seats, baby cages, or toys. There were only two bags, though. We’re going to need more bags. We need to stash emergency supplies for the babies in our cars.”

  “You got several gift cards so you can pick out your own bag,” he reminded me.

  “I think they forgot weddings aren’t baby showers, Sam.”

  “I think they did, too. Almost. The lingerie and handcuffs leads me to believe they were actually aware they were attending a wedding.” My husband chuckled, fetched a pair of red fuzzy handcuffs, and spun it around his finger. “And I don’t have to worry about using my work cuffs on you now.”

  Whee! “Gorgon-incubus doohickeys are the best doohickeys.”

  “I’m certainly glad you think so. I did order new tack for you, but it won’t be ready for a while. I also put in official orders for your work tack, which will be ready soon, as that was a rush order so you can work. I’m going to have to get measured now, too.”

  “Do I get to ride you?”

  “Obviously.”

  “Is now a bad time to say I don’t have any idea in hell how to ride a horse or unicorn?”

  “You’ll be trained, as you’ll have to possibly ride on mounted patrols. Or if we’re required to ride in a parade.”

  “No parades.”

  “We’re chiefs, Bailey. We can’t avoid the parades, especially if the civilians demand one.”

  “But why would anyone demand a parade?”

  “They like to show us off during the Christmas parades. This year is the first year since I started I didn’t ride in the parade, but apparently, we got an announcement of our wedding instead. I refused to watch the videos, as I saw no need to embarrass myself.”

  “Oh, great. Now everybody knows we’re married?”

  “So it seems.”

  “Okay. I can live with that. The world now knows you’re claimed. I can handle this like a mature adult.”

  My husband grinned at me. “Are you sure about that?”

  “I will try to handle this like a mature adult,” I corrected. “I didn’t even run for the bathroom this time.”

  “While claiming your life was over because how dare anyone believe you’re an affectionate fire-breathing, meat-eating unicorn capable of love,” he teased.

  “I’m so bad at this.”

  “You’re exactly what I want and need in my life, so you’re going to have to get used to it, Mrs. Samuel Quinn.”

  “Mrs. Samuel Quinn definitely sounds better than Mr. Bailey Gardener.”

  “It really does, but I’d tolerate it for you.”

  “I successfully got rid of that name, and you will not bring it back. No. I refuse. I’m still mad I can’t change the name on my birth certificate. How rude is that? And I can’t even get a new one issued with the proper parentage on it because they cap out at three. Why can’t I get an exception? Gorgons have one.”

  “There are also enough gorgons to make it worthwhile to set up birth certificates for their offspring, whereas you’re a rather unique entity.”

  “Just because the good parents had to get creative doesn’t mean they should be excluded from my birth certificate. Then my birth certificate wouldn’t be such a shitty document.”

  “I see you have embraced your divine parentage with full enthusiasm.”

  “He climbed under a table, Sam. For me.”

  “It’s worth mentioning I would happily climb under the table with you, too. I even considered it at the reception, but the cops apparently wanted to talk with me. Well, us, but they found you climbing under the table to get some breathing space refreshing and amusing. You didn’t miss much beyond some snarky commentary about how I’m slow, it was about time, and questions if you’d make them coffee.”

  “It’s good to be wanted.”

  “Well, you make the best coffee in Manhattan. Or anywhere, really. I can’t even lie, my beautiful, but I miss your coffee and can’t wait to go home so you can reward me for my excellent behavior. With coffee.”

  “Obviously, learning how to make good coffee was my ploy to catch your attention.”

  “It was quite successful, although you really caught my attention by disliking me from the start.”

  “You’re a sucker for punishment.”

  “It’s not a punishment if I like it, Bailey,” he reminded me.

  I loved my gorgon-incubus doohickey. “Did we get anything we can use immediately?”

  “You got that really nice red leather notebook with organizer.” Quinn rummaged through our gifts until he located it. He handed it to me before digging out one of the fancy pen boxes we’d also received. “You’ll definitely like it, as it has pockets, a place to put your new pen, and it’ll fit nicely into that tote someone gave you.”

  “Oh! The tote.” I joined my husband in searching the gifts until I found the black leather bag with extra-long adjustable straps. “I can wear this as a unicorn. It’s magically fireproofed, and it can withstand up to napalm, Quinn.”

  “It’s like someone had it made with you in mind,” he replied with his most wicked smile.

  I bounced back to the couch, took the pen, which was made of some dark, lustrous wood, and tested the leather notebook to determine it fit in the bag with room to spare. “Oh! I bet my gun will fit in here, too. And my wallet, and I bet I could fit something for lunch in here, too.”

  “Bailey, do you really think I’m going to let you pack lunches when I can take you out to eat most days of the week? We can have dates every day if we do that. Anyway, we both got those weird bento boxes we can use if you really want to take lunch to work.”

  The idea of daily lunch dates with Quinn hadn’t crossed my mind, and I stared at him with wide eyes. “But won’t that be expensive?”

  “Salary,” he reminded me.

  I blinked. “Oh. I can afford lunch dates now, can’t I?”

  “You could afford lunch dates before, Mrs. Millionaire.”

  Right. Outside of buying an excessive number of coffee machines for the station, I had barely touched the money I’d received as my danger pay for leveling 120 Wall Street so the gorgon dust infecting the building couldn’t spread. “I guess I can, can’t I?”

  “You’re brilliant with budgeting, Bailey, but you can afford to come to lunch with me. And trust me when I say this: you’ll be grateful to escape for even half an hour on a bad day. Our job isn’t easy, and I doubt it’s going to get easier. It’ll be good for us, because we’ll be
working together. It’ll be hard, but it’ll be good.”

  Things worth doing were often difficult. “What else should I put into my bag if lunch doesn’t need to go into it?”

  “Your laptop will fit, as will your phone. I might have to get one for myself, honestly. It looks really convenient for when we’re sporting four hooves and a fur coat.”

  “We’ll test drive the bag looking into this gorgon and rabies problem. Did you get a bag or something?”

  “I have a manly messenger bag which is also immune to fire-breathing unicorns, but I don’t know if the strap is big enough to get around my neck when I’m a cindercorn.”

  “Show me!”

  Like my bag, which was designed to accommodate me while a cindercorn, Quinn’s was black and fireproofed to survive my wicked ways. His was a little wider and lacked the third strap meant to keep it snug to my body and prevent the bag from getting in the way of my legs. “Mine isn’t quite as elaborate as yours.”

  “We can add a third strap to yours, and it’ll be fine. My third strap can be removed, too. All we’d need to do is add a clip to secure it to your saddle if it’s not being worn around your neck. Honestly, the strap should be fine as long as it’s snug enough on your neck so the bag can’t bang into your legs. The handles on both look sturdy enough we can carry them in our mouths if needed. We’re nose breathers, so it’s not like we need to open our mouths when we run. We’ll fiddle with it until it works.”

  “Mine will definitely fit gloves, bags and any other tools we’ll need if we find anything that might count as evidence. We’re going to have to work on your evidence handling skills, Mrs. Cindercorn.”

  “It’s not my fault the bomb squad hadn’t swept better. If they hadn’t left a bomb up there, I wouldn’t have played around with the evidence. Or pulled the wires. Or decontaminated the exterior. Basically, don’t do anything I did with that bomb, and I’ll be mostly okay.”